


The Day Trip: Rodin's The Kiss

by Pambot3000, Voodoosgirl



Series: The Bendy Boys [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action Figures, Bottom Bucky Barnes implied, Bucky Barnes Bingo 2019, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Embedded Images, Fanart, Fluff, Good Boyfriend Steve Rogers, Humor, Implied Bottom Bucky Barnes, M/M, Original Character(s), Romance, The Bendy Boys!, septender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-09-30 09:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20444642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pambot3000/pseuds/Pambot3000, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voodoosgirl/pseuds/Voodoosgirl
Summary: Bottom line: Bucky had an itch. He felt a whole lot bad about the two Executive Administrative Assistants languishing in prison somewhere “Out there” for a crime they were indeed guilty of; tried, convicted and committed. Despite the appearance of justice being served, it irked him deeply that these two erstwhile work-a-day women were now hardened criminals deprived of their freedom, Officially Licensed Captain America curtains, and the All-You-Can-Eat food bars that had become a sort of obsession for Bucky after the Great Deprivation Period of his time with Hydra.The Plan: Take a Day Trip. To The Musee Rodin in Paris. Steve's right there with him to replicate unabashed Rodin's The Kiss.





	The Day Trip: Rodin's The Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pambot3000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pambot3000/gifts).

> Fill for Bucky Barnes Bingo 2019 Free Square  
An entry for Captain America Septender. 
> 
> The Bendy Boys expertly, lovingly manipulated by Pambot3000.  
This was written as a gift to my Best Sister in All Things and Stucky. ❤  
The OC's are loosely based on real people, they wanted a story where they went on an adventure and I obliged. Names were changed, kind of ;)
> 
> I admit --- I have an odd sense of humor. Constructive comments are welcome.

**Beginning at the End of the Day**

Two pictures side by side, ripped shards of grey duct tape holding them in place fridge door proud. Bucky peeling sticky threads from metal fingers, studying the images with a tired and satisfied eye.

Steve slipping barefoot quiet, arms encircling a waist possessive, nuzzling dark hair’s cascade past shoulders; neck bending compliant, an ask for his mouth, his kiss, beard to prickle skin. Breath pulled slow and long and hungered, hinted scents wafting spiraled, peach-strawberry, soap, and lavender. A smile’s spread for his knowing, Bucky’s fascination with all things soft scented, soothing kind.

Bodies fitting as one lost too long found again, a hug more than skin pressed to skin, a caress meant to be remembered, reclaiming time stolen. Steve holding Bucky, fingers slip beneath the T-shirt, his shirt borrowed with a tease, too big for Bucky’s frame. Hands tucked beneath the stretch of sleep pants sitting low on hips gentle pressed back, a promise for later in their night.

Soft sway of bodies joined tandem, music heard in memories shared ages past. Both studying the pictures collected memories from their day taped awkward, juxtaposed incongruous. Steve and Bucky a kissed embrace; the other a ragged troupe candid shot, compliments of Natasha their unofficial designated chronicler of clandestine adventures.

Steve’s words spoken nestled to an ear, “You did a good thing today, pal.”

Bucky’s answer a wriggled move to match skin-to-skin, curves and dips fitting warm, “Yeah, well I dunno about that. Got a little out of hand.”

“No one was hurt.” A kiss pressed to a cheek, Steve’s hold a shaken reassurance, “Everyone’s back where they belong. Safe and sound.”

“Look at us,” Bucky pointing at the pictures, “What a mess.” Shy smile telling, not a mess, not ashamed, at the end of the day feeling pleased. A mark in mind’s ledger for a kindness done.

Sam calling from the living room, checking phone’s messages. “Fury called. He said, and I quote, ‘Barnes you son of a bitch, you did it again. Damn it, you owe me. Big, extreme, enormous, mucho grande, temps fort, very, very, very big time. Better get outta town pronto.’ End quote.”

Steve glancing over his shoulder, “Um, that last part doesn’t sound like Fury. You sure about that message?”

“Last part garbled, pretty sure that’s what he said. Barnes, listen, happy to help you out. I can have your bags packed in five minutes, better yet, three minutes. Drive you to the bus stop. Snacks, we’ll stop for snacks, ten-dollar max though.” Adding in a distinctly parental tsking sing-song like tone, where his finger-wagging could be heard if not directly seen, “You are not taking the truck.”

Bucky turning to bear-wrap Steve, body climbed, arms and legs engulfing, weight lifted feather-light in arms more than willing to carry him to bed, muttered answer overwhelmed by mouths lost in their kiss, “Yeah well, tell him put it on my tab.”

**Act One: The Backstory**

Aliens, Schmaliens.

The hands-down worst threat Cap’s Quartet faced in the past eighteen months and twenty-seven days was a pair of face-scratching, jacket-ripping trouble-makers; a seamless set of shamefully underpaid, grossly over-worked Tier Three Executive Administrative Assistants. A One plus One doing the work of twelve; a dynamic pair of Cocked Pistols Maximum-Maximum Ready. Their not nearly enough coffee yet voices in complete unison except for one yawn and an obligatory groan reciting their faux militarized mantra at precisely 6:59:59 AM “Women: It’s Friday at Five Somewhere even if it’s not specifically five PM here.”

The interminable, the incorrigible, the indefatigable: MayMay and BeeBee.

A well-oiled (read that as liquored) duo of determination, deftness and discretion with a mostly one-of-a-kind pinkie finger dap. A modified Best Sisters salutation; a full-body chest bump, hip tap, elbow smack greeting, which was brilliant on the Wal-Mart free to trial Sims game, yet turned out an epic fail on first real-world attempt when they premiered it at the Spring Grand Opening buy-one-cone-get-the-second-one- half-off event at their local Lickety-Split Ice Cream Parlor. Always a Big Crowd Event. The debacle not for lack of enthusiasm and definitely due to lack of practice but mostly due to their collective blind-spot when it comes to physics. MayMay having the most desirable voluptuous curvature that out-muscled BeeBee’s more svelte body style times two and one half. It was the hip tap that did them in.

Lessons learned: Bleach has got nothing on Triple Berry Delight. Not to mention the two weeks of traction required to reset BeeBees’ trochanter to its near-perfect anatomical alignment and the total loss of discretionary funds getting the lawsuit dismissed.

Although MayMay to this day feels her drop-kick decking of the beer-belly dad snapping photos of poor BeeBee spread-eagle screeching on the sidewalk covered in blue/red/pink ice cream was totally righteous. “I’d do it all again for you baby.” Her unrelenting gravely-voiced song of her peoples.

Nevermind, the hot flush of pride when she pulled off that move sans a single second of practice after her nine-hundred and ninety-ninth viewing of a YouTube video shakily recorded from an undisclosed location over the Big D.C. Cap vs Bucky before Bucky remembered he was Bucky Fight.

These two fine women took it upon themselves to supplement the paltry pay they received after devoting sixteen long years of their lives in the service of a corporate mega-entity which shall remain nameless for fear of further repercussions but insert the villainous conglomerate of your choice right here _____.

Not only did they get a less than 0.03% pay raise this year but the damn "man" cut their earned time benefits by one point three hours per pay-period; eliminated the Hump Day Free Mocha Latte mini-samples in the cafeteria and rescinded Dress-Down Friday despite the fact it raised money for the duck pond at the local home for retired actors who used to play Super Heroes.

There is just something so right about wearing ripped jeans and an aged in the sun Official Hozier T-shirt to work for a dollar contribution donated to a worthy cause. Apparently not to the mega-corporate bloated giant that cut the budget for trash bags and pens; but spent a shit-ton of money on rebranding and repainting the entire twenty-seven acres of buildings to a more soothing Undine Aqua tone offset by Rise and Shine Yellow.

“Soothing my perfectly-rounded subtly perky sweet ass,” to quote BeeBee.

Anyway, MayMay took a Tai Chi class that one time after being totally mesmerized by a hot glimpse of The Winter Soldier battling Captain America on one of those CNN New Year’s Eve retrospectives. The infamous Pax de Deus being tucked between a demo of the Zoomer Dino-Boomer (batteries NOT included) a Must Buy toy for the kid who has it all; and a thirty-second kinda rushed recap of the Ebola Virus outbreak (yikes.) Her yet unshriveled ovaries set aquiver by the allure of a long-haired Badass in Black Leather, a mask and a pair of Army boots.

With pants.

Better without, but acceptable with…I mean it’s CNN, kids are watching. The feverish flash came with the shock of dark hair fashionably flying across the Soldier’s vision as he cat-walk strutted an automobile.

MayMay would never be the same again.

Her smitten obsession a deft counterpoint to BeeBee’s real-world grind running herd on three boys, a dog the size of a Shetland pony and six and a half cats. In their highly charged yet well-calculated estimations, this qualified them to do a side gig with the regional WWF team, (No not the World Wildlife Federation --- close though) which on first glance promised a big payout, cool costumes and a wee bit of fame.

MayMay, a pseudo-socialist concerned with the nitty-gritty: A workforce oppressed by corporate greed, the ethics of violence as an entertainment medium, the meta of Is It Real or Is It Not Real; and...what the hell would they use for stage names, never mind choosing leopard print jumpsuits over chartreuse spandex.

Her voiced reticence side-tracked by BeeBee’s charms: Going braless, her cauliflower mashed potato recipe, and a tongue that could tie a cherry stem into three consecutive knots. The beer chasing Jack one fine Friday night Happy Hour, of course, had nothing to do with their faulty decision-making.

Although MayMay possessed a mean chokehold, and her curvy Rubinesque totally sublime form made her a formidable foe from across the ring, and up close (Ask Sam.) BeeBee’s lankiness combined with her penchant for giggling to the point of leaking just a little pee under stress; and being a self-declared lover (Ask Natasha) not a fighter ultimately worked against them. Alas, their foray into live wrestling lasted but a weekend. Well technically, it lasted two six-minute rounds and one round of about forty-five seconds. Unfortunately, the Ambulance ride was not covered by their insurance.

The half-cat?

Not literally a half of a cat. Gross. A stray comes by every third night to howl under BeeBee’s window. She tried throwing a shoe at it (how cliché) but that damn shoe bounced right back in the window scaring the poo right outta a melatonin-laden BeeBee. She stared with a good deal of intimidated respect at that glowy-eyed tabby for at least six minutes.

Her sleep-deprived brain wondering how the hell said cat tossed that shoe back at her, she took the loss as yet another urban legend right up there with Chupacabra, the New Jersey Devil --- not the hockey team --- the kangaroo and/or wyvern-like creature with a goat and/or horse-like head, leathery bat-like wings, horns, small arms with clawed hands, legs with cloven hooves, and a forked tail --- that wanders the Pine Barrens.

And Yeti.

They don’t wander the Pine Barrens --- yet.

In a moment of humble capitulation, she tossed a bag of cat food out the window, an homage to the feral world. They’ve gotten along fine since then.

Admittedly it took BeeBee approximately three weeks to notice the neighbors trampoline outside her bedroom window. The clue came when a grungy faced gremlin child intermittently flashed past her window sill one Saturday 10 am as she lay post Friday Happy Hour naked sprawling across her bed.

By then it was too late.

That cat had her by the Meow Mix and the gremlin child just smiles that weird sort of demonic yet satisfied smirk now every morning as he gets on the school bus in front of her house.

BeeBee tugs her psychedelic mauve chenille plush robe just a little tighter when she wanders the neighborhood curbside mini-gardens every Thursday around 10 pm scavenging for those trash to treasures that define her haute couture boho decor.

Anyway.

Taking their respective mortgage/condo fees and dreams of leisurely retirement on the Plaza de Cartagena, Columbia into account, MayMay and BeeBee decided to forgo the wrestling side gig and go with their strength: utilize their profound organizational, critical thinking, and overall get shit done business abilities and apply them to a new albeit clandestine endeavor.

Part-time, under cover of darkness, with a free account on a well-known Internet porn site and under the guise of Thursday night Paint and Sip classes, they opened the virtual doors to their new freelance business: _Need Knock-Off Chitauri Weapons? We Got ‘Em! Or Can Get Them, Fast and Not so Cheap._

After a semi-rocky start where the initial weapon was actually a damn fine replica toy “borrowed” from a local kid’s movie memorabilia production shop in his step-dad’s garage nestled in the foothills of The Craggy Mountains. The women of influence got their Chitauri’s in a row and started doing business to the tune of at least three hundred and ninety-nine dollars a month. Not a bad startup for a porn site brokered alien weapons sales.

Who knew aliens and porn went together?

Yeah, yeah, insert knowing smile, mocking nod, maybe a snorty little laugh. Of course, we know this; extra points for tentacles.

Okay, so, sixteen years of office politics make an Admin Assist hella shrewd; or tired and crusty. Maybe all three. MayMay nods with smug satisfaction at BeeBee’s incredulous look staring at the Tupperware Jello ring mold much like the Sixties relic she dug out of a musty trunk in the back of one of those always open, never a customer in sight, roadside antique shops. The pea-green rippled form stuffed with balled-up dollar bills, six rolls of quarters and a smattering of pennies. The coloring vaguely reminiscent of her Aunt Peggy’s jello, fruit and marshmallow concoction that was a sad substitution for a real dessert at the family dinner Sundays, and every single one of her stinking Birthdays since she was two.

BeeBee shuddered at the nausea-evoking memory.

MayMay’s whiskey-tinged growl, “It’s all I could find under the sink.”

A concessionary coo, BeeBee left a FireBall Red smudge of a kiss on a forehead, “We’re buying one of those money boxes at the Dollar Store, my love. Two weeks, payday.” A frisky slap of MayMay’s butt for emphasis, “The one with two keys. We’ve got an image to protect.”

MayMay couldn’t agree more.

**Act Two: Enter the Team**

Actually, re-enter the team. But that’s a whole other story especially suited if you’re stuck in a waiting room at the DMV or you’re staring at your own Jello Mold Fruity Marshmallow Concoction at an intolerable Family Gathering. Aka...it’s a long-ass Work In Progress.

Okay, so the Boys and company.

One Nicholas J. Fury took full control of this nifty pair of nefarious purveyors of fake weapons after Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Natasha corralled them in the sun-drenched South American emerald of a city Cartagena a few months after they started NKOCWWGEOCGTFANSC, which is a ridiculously long and ponderous acronym that BeeBee was somewhat reluctant to give up. She enjoyed trying to sound it out, a bit of a throwback to her childhood and Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. A fonder memory than the slimy fruity Jello thingy. 

They soon adopted Bucky’s far more succinct and easy to remember collective reference partly because well it’s Bucky aka the Winter Soldier aka Captain America’s boyfriend, aka Steve’s main squeeze (MayMay’s terminology reflective of her predilection for full-body holds as an expression of affection...and a fighting technique --- ask Sam --- when he’s in a good mood.) And she kinda (definitely with extreme prejudice) had a soft spot for the Winter Soldier aka Bucky. And truth be told; it was easier to spell --- W.H.A.T.

Women Having Alien Trash.

Nobody said it made any sense.

Plus it certainly launched a confusing if not mildly hilarious, okay more like a subdued chuckle or two argument/almost brawl around Bucky saying “What?” Meaning “W.H.A.T.” and Sam getting miffed retorting “What?” And Natasha trying to explain the whole thing culminating in a heated, nose-to-nose tête-á-tête between Bucky and Sam in the Quinjet passenger bay somewhere over Albuquerque (otherwise known as Albu-Turkey when spoken by Bucky with a mouth-full of dried blueberries specifically, meticulously and with great OCD focus picked from a stale family-sized trail mix package.) And well, yes, the mumbly-mouthed “Albu-Turkey” did generate a side skirmish when Sam started laughing, Bucky scowl-pouted just a tiny bit, and Steve had to toss a water bottle into the bulkhead wall as a distraction, a lot like breaking up a catfight. Without the squirting part. (PSA: Please don’t spritz your cats. Unless they like it, of course. Thanks.)

Anyway...

The almost combat had MayMay cackling and clapping her zip-tied hands at the prospect of a live reenactment of the D.C. Street Fight that initially got her ovaries in a bunch. Alas, poor BeeBee did the dance of the Sitting Kegels for that unfortunate leaking issue when she laughed too hard.

Ultimately, it was a damn good thing they had autopilot. Steve intervened, dragging Bucky to the cockpit, (no pun intended) and tucked him snuggly between his legs for the rest of the ride home. And yes we could head on down that smut-filled road but let’s not for the sake of the General Rating.

Needless to say, Sam thought it was stupid, both the fight and the name, wondering aloud as they headed back from Cartagena why they were giving pet names to dangerous weapons dealers. Although he gave up arguing when MayMay and BeeBee launched into a rousing rendition of Supercali...etc and attempted to get Bucky to join in.

He did not.

At that specific moment.

He did become obsessed. To the consternation of the entire house, except Steve. Right so, technically not the ENTIRE house.

Nothing Bucky ever did consternated Steve. Not blender ingredients splattered on the ceiling, not blowing up the grill, not leaving the fridge door open so the pinging sound eventually wears down to a croaking semblance of its former alarm.

Therefore the endless loop of Mary Poppins and singing that song with Bucky off-tune mumbling along did not bother Steve. In the least. He is a damn good boyfriend. He also overnight shipped from Stealth-Supplies R Us some super-duper, sneaky hard to know they’re there earplugs.

So --- there is that.

Let’s digress for a second; one time Natasha was a tiny bit lubricated with Peppermint imbued Vodka and she and Bucky sang along with Ms. Poppins in the basement shower since that specific location had the superior acoustics. Fully clothed, water off, Steve standing outside the shower, holding Bucky’s hand cuz, well there is no trusting a Widow according to Bucky. Steve smiled and nodded a bit out of sync mostly because of those excellent earplugs.

(Boy this story is like that shortcut Uncle Al took every Sunday, a one-block trip taking sixteen blocks to get there. Talk about the scenic route.)

Alrighty...keep moving.

MayMay and BeeBee were safely tucked away in a medium-security prison in Utah, maybe it was Wyoming, even Fury wasn’t so sure, “Somewhere out there,” making a grand vague gesture that was hard to discern if it was an intergalactic “There” an Earthly “There” a U.S. “There” or just “There” as in “Not Here” in this specific location.

He did not elaborate.

“So not in New York?” Steve asked astutely after Bucky gave him that sidelong wide-eyed glare projecting, “Damn it, Steve, we need to know exactly where,” despite the fact that Fury was standing approximately sixty inches away. That’s one hundred and fifty-two point four centimeters for the metrics enthusiasts. And yes both those numbers are divisible by three. Which is not a coincidence but an act of supreme calculation in order to stay in sync with Bucky’s predilection for numbers divisible by three. An OCD thing.

Another long story.

Right, okay. Fury.

Bucky hadn’t spoken directly to Nicholas J. in nigh on twelve months, mostly because he didn’t speak to anyone other than Steve, and Romanova. And Sam, for taunting purposes only. And swearing. Not general conversations, not even for “Pass the salt” choosing instead to utilize Steve as his go-between in all things Fury related. And Sam on the he-pissed-me off days. His not speaking with Fury also had something to do with owing him a good chunk of money for damages to the fair city of Boston, yes that Boston as in Massachusetts.

Yet another long story, not like Budapest, not even remotely close.

Bottom line: Bucky had an itch. He felt a whole lot bad about the two Executive Administrative Assistants languishing in prison somewhere “Out there” for a crime they were indeed guilty of; tried, convicted and committed. Despite the appearance of justice being served, it irked him deeply that these two erstwhile work-a-day women were now hardened criminals deprived of their freedom, Officially Licensed Captain America curtains, and the All-You-Can-Eat food bars that had become a sort of obsession for Bucky after the Great Deprivation Period of his time with Hydra.

Bucky nursed a growing empathetic camaraderie with the Dynamic Duo, allowing points off for creativity, their love of all things Steve and the righteousness of their motivation. Not to mention all of the damn weapon-things were fake which in his puppy-dog reminiscent, sympathetic eyes negated the whole deal.

Therefore, whilst lying cocooned under the back porch deck, contemplating an unsuspecting Steve’s ass nestled not so comfortably in one of those vinyl strappy beachy kind of chairs inches from his face; and while listening to Sam whine on incessantly about how Barnes had supposedly glued his slippers to the bedroom floor. Bucky came up with a plan.

**Act Three: The Day Trip, The Musee Rodin, Paris, France**

It wasn’t a bad plan. Really.

Steal the jet from Fury (this time, since the last time Bucky stole it from Stark, and to be fair it was Fury’s turn. Again.) Whisk the Admin Assists turned criminals to Paris for a quick tour of the Musee Rodin (BeeBee's idea after reading about it in the Prison Library) lunch at Pizza Hut Paris (???...MayMay's idea, go figure) a photo op at the Eifel Tower (Bucky's idea...yes, Bucky) and BOOM back home before anyone even noticed they were gone. Or at least before Interpol caught up with them. 

Steve would be none the wiser since Bucky told him he was going for a walk.

Seriously. As if Steve believed that shit.

“Buck, I carry you to the kitchen for a grape run, you’re going for a walk. All day. Gone all day walking, right.” Steve actually laugh snorted his milk out of his nose just a little bit.

Picture that for a second.

Okay. So, Steve did not for one-second attempt to talk him out of it. No siree, he went right with him. 

Because why? Because Steve Is Categorically, Genetically and Emotionally Incapable Of Saying NO To Bucky. That’s why.

And of course, Sam chased them down the driveway screaming that stupid (in Bucky’s opinion) speech “I do what he does only slower” yet again for the umpteenth time, making Bucky roll his eyes so hard he kinda strained his eye muscles and had temple pain for at least ninety minutes.

All Birdman’s fault of course.

Natasha joined them because well, let’s be dead serious, someone has to be the Responsible One and bring the bail money. And snacks. And well, truth be told, it’s Paris. A girl has no name fashion sense if she doesn’t take a free trip to Paris, right?

Fast forward: The Musée Rodin outdoor Cafe, an absolutely stunning day; sky azure blue, sunlight glinting bright. A breeze gentle, not enough to turn pristine red-haired curls into a stringy mess, yet just enough to dry armpit sweat stains if Sam nonchalantly stretched his hands over his head. The place abuzz with touristy, kiddie and doggo activity. That magical mystical sort of scene where all people are smiling, all children are playful; chattering sans a single scream or tear or tantrum, even the doggos are miraculously leaving their poo nestled discreet under the succulent blooms of glossy-leaved rhododendrons.

Sam and Nat kicking back, bare feet propped on chairs, he enjoying a watermelon-cranberry-lime fruit smoothie. To Sam’s credit, he kept a pretty straight face when the waitress slipped the tiny plastic replica of one of Rodin’s most famous statues in the middle of his very thick drink, tipping it upside down, ala the creamy smooth concoction Le Blizzard at the local Dairy Queen. No drippage! Although it was a bit creepy drinking around a headless, armless naked man. Even if it was plastic, and small, and helped stir the lime into cool-looking swirls. 

It's tempting to wax on about an armless naked man but that's too damn obvious. 

Meanwhile. 

Natasha was getting a decent buzz off her third baguette, which is not inherently buzz-producing but does become buzzy when she dipped it in the Drambuie. She may be the designated bail money holder, adventure chronicler, and snack proprietor; she was not the designated driver.

There they were, one-half of Cap’s Quartet, basking in the shade of an over-sized festively-striped umbrella, sipping drinks, drying armpits, hoisting sheets to the wind, on a perfect lazy getaway day in Parée compliments of Barnes and his great big fat idea.

Natasha bearing a diminutive scant nanosecond of remorse, a lolling gaze over her sunglasses to peer at Sam, “Should we help them? I’m sure I heard Barnes scream something unintelligible an hour ago.”

Sam not so foolishly inclined, not to mention being in a superior “I heart Paris” mood choosing to keep internal the copious amount of snide comments regarding Barnes and ‘unintelligible’ swiftly segued to “No. Nope, no, I have full confidence in Barnes’s ability to track those two fugitives down. He is a man without a plan, a force without a course.”

His rhyming rap endorphins running high somewhat akin to the recent double-dark chocolate brownies episode when he gobbled up an entire pan after Barnes won bowl-licking rights. He revenge ate the whole damn thing. All at once. 

Stuffed. His. Face.

Triggered by the sweet distinctive aroma of baked chocolate goodness, Barnes came tumbling down the stairs butt first, slip-slid socked feet across hardwood floors to sprawl with cat-like grabby hands inches from Sam’s face, chipmunk cheek full. Admittedly the whole Barnes assault appeared in this weird sort of slow-motion wavy kind of montage that gave Sam a creepy shudder-wonder if it was some magical Former Assassin’s morphing skill. 

Nothing to do with slamming nine thousand calories of pure sugar blurring his vision. Nope.

Sam barricaded his door for the next three nights just in case; morphing abilities and/or payback. And yes, a bunny did just hop right through here chirping the need to explore that little vignette at a later date.

Sam’s scrunchy-faced swallow of the last dark morsel of hot gooeyness burned his tongue, the blister well worth the few and far between, much sought after Barnes one-uppances.

Sam’s rhyming high hard to resist he added with a self-congratulatory sigh, ”A loner with a boner.” Sucking a long and satisfying slurpy sip of his icy sweet concoction, “We’re here for clean-up, that’s it. Cap will call us if he needs us.”

No argument from Natasha, on any of Sam’s points, especially the boner part, hard not to notice that sort of thing with Barnes’ preference for going commando, not to mention Steve and the Great Quest for Sex in Every Room. She nudged shades back to give the world its non-glare glow, deep dunked her baguette in the lovely brown liquid while staring down a nattily groomed Bichon Frise throwing some serious craven side-eye at the red-soled boots she’d snagged on this trip.

The shoe find a moment of cosmic coming together. Natasha doing due diligence as required by the former Captain America following Bucky as he doggedly chased his liberated ladies. A struggle on a quaint Paris street, Bucky semi-strangled in a wide-eyed questionable chokehold vs Reverse Mazurka with MayMay outside the tres fashionable Louboutin Boutique.

Nat watched bewitched, bothered and bemused the macabre maneuvers largely ignored by Parisians and tourists alike assuming the long-haired guy with a metal arm and the voluptuous woman in a flowy dress, night sky blue distinctly similar to Bucky's blue leather were rejects from the local try-outs for France’s Got Talent.

The pair's dance/fight/whatever reminiscent of those spontaneous street performers in desperate need of rent money. A few kind souls sympathy-pressed money in Nat's hand while whispering in that empathic French sort of way, "For the dancers."

Natasha being a multi-tasker, no fool, and a smart shopper; she tucked the Odd Couple’s tips in her bra, eye-balled the latest offerings in the Boutique window and knelt to get Bucky's attention.

Yes, he was laid out, face first, metal arm pinned under him, MayMay lying full frontal body press on his back, all five foot three of her, toes extended. Indeed a sweat-inducing moment. For both. For vastly different reasons.

Nat said, "You okay?"

Bucky nodded, gravel scraping his cheek, saying, "Uh-hu." Muffled, definitely muffled. 

"Great, you got this. Don't go anywhere, be right back." Natasha dared to muss hair already knotted in a tangled mess, a quick brush to see his eyes. One gray eye, peeking out; wild yes, pupil pinpoint, yes, still conscious yes. A quick pat of his head, she dashed to the call of the Red-Soled Shoes.

Right about now, stress being a factor, as well as air, or lack thereof, Bucky’s constant companion, nemesis, critic and reviewer of all food, fluids, and sexual performances: The Voice in his Head showed up. Yup, that Voice, the one compliments of Hydra, thank you very much, loud and proud and arriving as usual with piss-poor timing and seriously questionable advice.

_"Soldat, what the hell are you doing? That woman has you flayed and splayed. The Winter Soldier takes no prisoners, makes no mistakes. The Winter Soldier does not yield to anyone. Even a woman body pressing you into the damn pavement. Break her. In half, into a thousand pieces. Do it. Do it. Do it.”_

Bucky groaned. The de rigueur response to anything the Voice had to say, but especially he kinda hated this part, the " Do it " goad. Like that time Steve force-nudged him into eating okra, (Gah) or that time he MADE him go to the grocery store alone and he got stuck in the fruit and vegetable aisle, specifically at the peaches, that mountain of rounded, orange/yellow/red sweetness so reminiscent of something acutely familiar and yet? 

Stuck, so stuck, the store manager had to call Steve to come get him at closing time. All Bucky could mumble on the way home was "Peaches, Steve. So many peaches, fuzzy peaches." 

Anyway, Bucky was too much of a deep-down kind person, he did not exert the full force of his ability to break her in two.

Although he took it under serious advisement.

Needless to say, things Were Not Going As Planned.

**ACT Four: Are We There Yet? Almost!**

At some point, Bucky locked himself on the Musee Rodin roof --- for the third time --- not his fault. 

Not his fault. 

It had more to do with extreme frustration fueled by a smidgeon of fatigue, two wicked big blisters from not wearing the socks Steve had specifically bought him for just this sort of occasion. And the fact that his boots were sopping wet from the six times the ladies danced like freaking stoned barefoot Woodstock Wanna-be’s in the fountain with Bucky awkward chasing them round and round. Mostly because he was not much of a touchy-feely person, (well, duh except for touching Steve) and from past experience he knew if he laid one finger on MayMay she'd cling to him like he tripped, fell and power rolled in a ditch full of those damn burr bushes; which he did, at one time, and spent freaking days getting those accursed things out of his hair. 

Steve saving the day, well at least that moment, fishing him out by the ankles when he wandered past the soggy scene on his way to the outdoor statuary exhibit. Good thing he glanced up from the Official Rodin Tour Guide and noticed the floating face-down body in the fountain. The wet derriere protruding from water’s surface had a distinct and recognizable roundness that Steve knew very very intimately. 

Veeerrrry. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

That is the reason, all of the above is the reason Bucky let the damn roof door close behind him locked for the third fracking time that day.

Really, the dangerous duo wasn’t all that fast on their feet. Considering they were incarcerated with little yard time (or inclination) for cross-training. Besides, it's a little hard to run in blown out flip-flops and a pair of crocs with little CAP shields pinned in the holes. Much like the chicken and the egg, it was a hugely debated phenomenon as to who actually glued the tiny Cap shields to their shoes first, Bucky or MayMay. That great debate took place around the kitchen island, Bucky sprawled on the top, reminiscent of one of those spit-roasted poor piglets only he had a bag of Reese’s pieces that he deftly licked slowly and with much provocativeness one piece at a time from the counter.

And yes, you guessed it. Sam was disgusted.

Steve made literal google eyes. And the aforementioned boner.

MayMay had no words and a couple of beads of sweat on her forehead even via Skype.

BeeBee did an excellent mimic of that gremlin child’s (last heard from in Act One) demon smirk. Her appreciation swinging both ways regarding tongues.

Natasha? She never looked up from her phone.

The real drag on this chase, the anchor of this team, the slow in slow day, was really Steve.

Bucky had to keep running back for him when he stopped to admire the art. Sam groused in everyone’s ears, “I thought you two were Super Soldiers. You’re as slow as a couple of grandpas taking the air around the damn duck pond at the Senior Center.”

You see, you know, Steve Rogers loved art. Not more than he loved Bucky, nothing came before Bucky.

OKay. I’ll say it.

Except Steve. Sometimes he Came before Bucky. He hated that but it is what it is.

Back on track. Steve loved art enough to fall into an enamored stare at a veritable wall of various landscapes, portraits and other sundry images in the museum’s gallery. Knowing full-well Bucky could handle roofs, shoes, fountains, and W.H.A.T. he got lost in the wonder of all things Rodin and Company. Keen eye rapt perusal of every stroke and dab and dash. So much so he never heard a word of anything anyone was saying on the comms.

Not even Bucky.

“Steve, Steve, Steve. Damn it, what the hell, where are you? I’m stuck. Really, come on. I’m stuck, I don’t want to break this door, I’m trying to be good here. You made me promise No Damages so please Steve? Steve. Steeeb!”

Slack muscled Steve sitting on a bench in front of Cottet’s Seascape, a reverent whisper across the comm, confirming he actually did hear Bucky's cry for help and trusted him implicitly to get off that roof on his own, "Buck, look at this, it's so stark, not capital S Stark; bleak stark, Cottet's use of color to convey the abject loss of hope is just stunning." A single tear staining his baby-butt smooth cheek, rolling to mingle oh so cutely into his beard.

Bucky braking hard, (Right, he got off the roof. Fire escape, he reluctantly chose to use it when Steve didn't answer. Rescue by Steve is so preferred cuz that involves the Desperate Reunion as if I Haven't Seen You in Years Near-Sex in Public level of greeting.) Anyway, arms crossed, head tilted in his dutiful, the other good boyfriend study of the painting, tapping his foot, count of three, his OCD required length of viewing. The obligatory yet not begrudging "Stunning. Uh-huh.”

Nodding support adding “Okay. Let's roll,” before snagging Steve by the shield strap that crisscrossed his back. The strap that Bucky kind of obsessed about, because you know, Steve, shoulders, straps, muscles. That damn blue stealth suit, taking that shit off, slowly, sticky sweat clinging possessive to material, already bulging muscles, extra-extra bulgy with Steve’s efforts to return the favor stripping Bucky of his own uniform at the same time. Zippers, meshy thingys, way too much stuff, not helped by the mutual tonguing whilst relieving one another of said grimy uniforms. Straps… right… biceps, pecs, abs, rectus grooves, formed very very formed. Tight, veins bulging down rock-solid muscles.

Yeah, you get it. That's the smutty portion. Head, Shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes. Distracting.

**Act Five: The Kiss. Bringing it Home**

About that time Bucky caught sight of a shimmering white marble statue, bathed in the electric glow of LED soft white light bulbs strategically placed to caress every angle of two naked bodies entwined forever in a cold embrace.

His steps stuttering to a halt, backpedaling three, exactly three to a metric precise tee, to stare unabashedly and with mouth a wee bit open in awe at gentle curves, bodies wrapped as passionate lovers. The statue a sweeping expanse of naked, lips barely brushed, a feather’s space between them, a kiss desired, needed, near consummated, held frozen for a Century disavowed by time and sculpt and storyteller alike.

Bucky stood staring, breath slowed quiet, empathy’s rush seeing himself and Steve, an image chasing meaningful across memories of time lost, ice-bound and enslaved. Lovers kept apart for a hundred years, doomed by an artist, a story told repeated, two souls lying close forever, denied body's warmth, arm's comfort, sitting at the edge of a lover’s consuming kiss.

Slightest of head tilts, thoughts racing tangential, the Voice in his head chiding out-of-character support, “_Sweet, superior pose. You need to snag the former Captain America, Nomad, Stevie, my little honey bear, whatever the hell you’re calling him now, when he dashes by, make him replicate this.”_

“Steve?” Bucky’s tone telling, focus slipped playful to serious, one word saying all, his want, his need; an ache scarred to heart, bound to soul, well-hidden in day's light; seen and heard and felt core-deep shared between lovers still breathing, still telling their story.

"Right here,"Steve's voice heated close, breath warm to Bucky's neck, arms encircling, palm's claim of a chest, rough tugged reassurance for the doubt left not spoken aloud; in one word, Bucky saying more than a thousand begs, fears and asks wrapped complete in the speaking of his name. 

Steve followed Bucky's gaze towards the white marble sculpture, soft lines curving voluptuous. Steve knowing Bucky's thoughts indisputable. His artist's eye gleaning the lines, a bench to recreate, a hand rested supportive, angles fit, bodies meeting, mouths flirted close, so close breath warmed soft skin. "Like this? You want to kiss like they are, the way they're posed?"

Bucky's smile nearly shy, gaze caught with Steve's, the team and the women at a distance watching, not privy to his murmur "Not like them, their mouths never met, the kiss incomplete, they never got our chance, what we have. No don't kiss me like that. Kiss me for real. Like there's no tomorrow, only us and now and we're making up for time stolen."

And that is exactly what Steve did. Because why? Because Steve Is Categorically, Genetically and Emotionally Incapable Of Saying NO To Bucky?

No.

Because Steve loved Bucky more than life itself. And Bucky loved him right back.

**Epilogue: What About the Ladies?**

Steve, "Where to next time?"

BeeBee, "MayMay’s turn to pick."

A gravelly voice wafted from over Bucky's shoulder, "I’ll think about it. Maybe Paraguay, or Rome or New Jersey, I hear the Barrens are a great place to hide a body."

The Voice chiming in,_ "__Shit. __She's on to us!"_

Bucky shuddered just a little bit.

Natasha sprawled on the Quinjet ramp, her head spinning not enough to prevent her from grabbing a big money shot to be plastered (pun intended) on the fridge in lieu of posting it to her pseude account, @Sokolov's Love Child, on Twitter. The image too bizarre, too precious to miss.

Bucky carrying MayMay piggyback after her solemn promise made that she would not lick any part of his head, ears, neck or hair. She was allowed to smell him but that was sort of unavoidable.

BeeBee limped along, in her own uniquely styled flair for the dramatic arm in arm with the "Last Bastion of Chivalry Left in This Cold Cruel World" otherwise known as Steve. One flip-flop blown, a wide swatch of mustard/ketchup dark staining where it landed on her ample bosom; a ragged yet sweetly satisfied smile on her face watching her MayMay chokehold with great love, affection, and veracity the Winter Soldier of her dreams. “There’ll be no sleeping with her after this not for at least three weeks.”

Bucky had no clue what that meant.

Steve guessed.

Nat knew. Because...Nat knows everything.

Sam stayed out of it.

The last Team Cap Quartet saw of the exhausted, content, indestructible MayMay and BeeBee was Bucky bending just enough to allow MayMay to plant a very quick, nanosecond of a kiss on his cheek after swearing on her Grandmother's six-ingredient vegan stuffing recipe that there would be No Tongue. AND he stood extremely still, wide-eyed, fingers twitching in Steve's general direction for empathic support while being the object of BeeBee's highly restrained and supremely choreographed fist touch, hip bump, run around him three times ending in a hug of his metal arm goodbye.

Sam asked as they settled in for the flight home,” What the hell was that?”

Bucky's answer, “It's our secret.” (Actually, he had no idea.) As he tucked himself in between Steve's legs in the pilot's seat, and yes with the lights out and Sam and Nat snoozing, autopilot would come in pretty "Handy."

And so the questionable and desperate reach for a point to this story:

A mark in mind’s ledger for a kindness done and a kiss stolen outright, memories made new, captured in a picture taped cherished and proud to a fridge door in Upstate New York.

**The End...No Really. Done.**

**Author's Note:**

> The Kiss  
Auguste Rodin (1840 -1917)  
Circa 1882  
Marble  
H. 181.5 cm ; W. 112.5 cm ; D. 117 cm  
S.1002 /Lux.132  
Commissioned by the French state in 1888, carved between 1888 and 1898. Joined the collections of the Musée du Luxembourg in 1901; transferred to the Musée Rodin in 1919.  
The Kiss originally represented Paolo and Francesca, two characters borrowed, once again, from Dante’s Divine Comedy: slain by Francesca’s husband who surprised them as they exchanged their first kiss, the two lovers were condemned to wander eternally through Hell. This group, designed in the early stages of the elaboration of The Gates, was given a prominent position on the lower left door, opposite Ugolino, until 1886, when Rodin decided that this depiction of happiness and sensuality was incongruous with the theme of his vast project.


End file.
